


and that be me, i got a king in my cavalry

by safeandsound13



Series: and all at once, you are the one i've been waiting for (king of my heart, body and soul) [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Children, Domestic, Drabble, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Fluff, Modern AU, basically just tooth rotting fluff who have i become, princess!clarke, who tf am i kidding i never write anything but fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-05 19:33:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17925002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: Clarke doesn't budge, mirroring his position, challenging look in her eyes. "You might have a crown, but I'm in charge."He raises his eyebrows, wholeheartedly unimpressed by the challenge, "Good thing I'm working hard on outnumbering you."OR: Clarke, Bellamy, and the tea party their kid forces them to go to.





	and that be me, i got a king in my cavalry

**Author's Note:**

> uhm hi bellarke has me in their chokehold as always. me writing this much fic, and FLUFFY ones at that, fics nobody even asked for during hiatus is **PEAK** illness xoxo

"Mommy," Ajax, whines, moans, any other loud sound for which it's way too early in the morning, tugging on her sleeping shorts and practically almost making her moon the guards flanking the kitchen in the process. She swats his hands away, sending Monroe and Sterling an apologetic look before she pushes her child back inside the kitchen.

"Jacks," Clarke starts, trying to keep a stern face as he pulls her over to the kitchen island. His first name was actually Jacobus, which she still hates, but it's Arkadian tradition, conveying lineage, a patronymic, familial fealty, saying ' _fuck you individualism_ ', whatever you want to call it. (She just takes a moment every day to thank whoever is or isn't up there that she turned out to identify as a girl.) Bellamy picked Ajax as his middle name, which he mostly goes by, in public. She just hoped they aren't giving the kid a identity complex with all the nicknames, but only time can tell. "Give me a second to wake up, okay?"

He lets go of her hand, staring up at her impatiently with familiar brown eyes as he puts his hands on his hips. "Are you sleepwalking?"

"No —" She admits, begrudgingly, crossing her arms over her chest. Who allowed him to possess such an attitude? It used to be cute, now it's less so.

"Then you're awake, right?" He grins so smugly, proud of himself, it's hard to argue with that. Clarke pinches the bridge of her nose, pushing out a loud sigh, dragging that out just to give herself another few seconds before mumbling an averse, "Fine —"

"Yay," he exclaims, clapping his hands together, then wasting no time and wrapping his fingers around her wrist, dark curls bouncing along with every step as he pulls her along through the kitchen, out of the sidedoor, about a hundred feet of hallway, past those awful painted family portraits, through one of the living rooms, another of those, down a stairs and out of the patio doors.

Clarke halts to a stop, even when he continues pulling on her hand for a good fifteen seconds — really throwing his weight in it too — before he blows out a heavy sigh, turning around to blink up at his mom. She doesn't budge. "Where are you taking me?"

(If she wasn't one hundred percent certain her kid wasn't a psycho, she was sure he was leading her somewhere to kill her off. Maybe he already held auditions for a new mom. She's seen the way he looks at Raven. He's crafty. It could happen. She should text Wells he's next.)

"I'm not telling," he says, simply, not at all bothered in any sort of way by the look on his mother's — heir to the throne of a whole ass country, by the way — face.

She raises her eyebrows, offended just slightly. "You're not telling?"

"I'm not telling," Ajax repeats, determined, about as pigheaded as she is.

She clenches her teeth, then nods for him to go on. He happily obliges, weaving his fingers with hers as he leads her down the back yard — even though both of them are barefeet, earning them a few amused grins and horrified looks from various of their guards — past the fountain with the ridiculous water-spitting Griffins and her mother's herbal garden. Finally, he stops in front of the conservatory, laughs giddily at the prospect of whatever is about to go down, and then continues to skip inside.

Of course Clarke follows him, because there's old rusty hedge shears in there, and she can't very much leave him alone with those, matricide planned or not.

"Oh thank God," she mumbles under her breath as she plops down on a chair across from Bellamy. She's safe as of yet. That, or they're conspiring. He grins over at her, amused, looking at her over the edge of his plastic purple cup. "Don't think I've ever heard you thank God for a tea party."

"No, but you've heard me thank the good old lady in  _different_ contexts," she bites back, not heated at all, as she makes sure to flash him a sugary-sweet smile. He chokes on his beverage, and Ajax takes a moment away from his dress-up box — she doesn't know who he turned his eyes on to manipulate them into dragging that all the way over here, but she has a feeling it was Sinclair — to come pat him on the back with about as much force as one would kick a soccerball at the start of a game.

"Softly, please, buddy," Bellamy tells him, still coughing, shifting so he can take a hold of his tiny hand, which is even tinier in his dad's grip, pulling him into his lap. Their son squirms in his grip, just slightly, trying to get a better look at his face. Ajax tugs on his dad's hair to make him look at him, which is already an absolute mess on top of his head, doing nothing to contradict Clarke's initial assumption that he was cornered by the four year old as soon as he came out of bed as well. He's still wearing his pj's too, an old dark threadbare shirt and some sweats.

"Daddy," he grouses, hands sliding down to his dad's cheeks, squeezing them together as best as he can, creating a sight funny enough to make the only woman in their midst chuckle under her breath, "I got you something."

He pulls both of Ajax's hands down with one of his, easily, sharing an amused glance with Clarke, "Did you now?"

"No eye-talk," he warns, threateningly, ripping one hand lose to point a finger up at his dad. "That's bullying."

The blonde rolls her eyes, leaning her chin on top of her fist, weight supported by her elbow leaning on the table. "It's the way we communicate, Jacks. We can't share everything with you."

"Like  _what?_ " He answers, petulant, turning his head as if he's finally deeming his mom worthy enough of a look. His brow is furrowed together, his lips pouted. Clarke hates herself for finding it adorable. He's a brat.

"Adult stuff," Bellamy cuts in, booping his nose, but he doesn't look satisfied. He turns to his mom again, almost insulted, " _I'm_ a big boy."

"We know you are." Clarke bites down a smile. She could deny they 'eye-talk' but that would be an obvious lie, since they're doing it at this exact moment. She isn't sure what he's trying to convey, exactly, but she's sure it's something dirty. She struggles to explain it in understandable terms for a child. "But some things aren't as fun for someone your age. Like ruling a country. Opinions about important rules, the law. Or doing taxes."

"Yeah," her husband agrees, obviously trying very hard not to look over at her all smug right now, "and your mom  _loves_ none fun things."

She narrows her eyes at him when he finally does glance over at her, his dumb smirk only widening. They do plenty of fun things. Fun things was playing the lousy drinking game he came up with and the reason she went on a drunken political rant in front of the entire European Union after. (It was all true, but still.) Fun things was spending countless of off days watching ridiculous history documentaries against her will, not a single drop of booze in sight, his definition of fun anyway. Fun things was the whole reason they almost had Ajax out of wedlock and her mother on blood pressure medication.

"Taxes," Ajax tries it out, word foreign in his mouth. Then he lifts a shoulder, indifferent, climbing out of Bellamy's lap. First he puts down a plastic cup of tea in front of his mother, which she takes a sip of just because she normally would've scarfed down half her breakfast by now, immediately spitting it back into the cup. It's ice-cold and tastes like ass. She doesn't dare ask what it's supposed to be, just humms like it's the best thing she's ever tasted.

Next, he dives back into his dress-up box, emerging with a plastic crown. It's silver, pink heart-shaped diamond in the middle. "See? It's for you. Me and Uncle Nate bought it."

Clarke snorts. Of course. Uncle Nate _loved_ to see Bellamy embarrassed for no other reason than they show their love and affection in weird, socially incompetent ways. It was bromance at first sight back when she first introduced them, and it's been hell for her ever since.

Bellamy presses a hand to his heart, pretends to be honored, even though he probably actually is, bending his neck in an awkward angle so their son can put it on top of his head. He sits back up, adjusting it just slightly, before looking at Ajax expectantly, "Well? What do you think?"

His eyes actually sparkle as he nods excitedly, even hopping up and down a little, "You look so pretty!"

"Thanks, kiddo," Bellamy announces, ruffling his hair playfully. His grin widens, maliciously. "Should we take a picture for Uncle Nate so he can get it printed on a t-shirt and wear it in public to show how much he loves us?"

His face lights up, cautiously. "For Uncle Bryan too?"

"Wouldn't want him to miss out," Clarke fills in, sarcastically, but the kid hardly seems to notice, already diving back into his treasure box.

"Oh, how the tables have turned, princess." Bellamy smirks, smugly, leaning his elbows on top of the table to lean closer to his wife. He's still just as attractive as when she met him years — a lifetime — ago; only now his hair is longer, and there's a few wrinkles where the skin used to be smooth, and he's decided to grow out his facial hair for some reason completely beyond her. (Maybe just to spite her for saying he couldn't.) None of it does anything to make life easier on her really, especially not combined with that demon-forsaken nickname.

She's still a princess, even though she knows that the inevitable moment she'll become a queen is coming sooner rather than later. Her dad has wanted to retire for a long while now, her mom probably the only reason he hadn't yet. They know Clarke is more than ready for it though, especially with Bellamy by her side. She knows she'll always be a princess in his eyes, queen or not.

Clarke doesn't budge, mirroring his position, challenging look in her eyes. "You might have a crown, but  _I'm_  in charge."

He raises his eyebrows, wholeheartedly unimpressed by the challenge, "Good thing I'm working hard on outnumbering you." He reaches out, tugs on a strand of her hair, almost reaching her waist now. She knows he likes it, a lot, and not just because he gets to make digs at her and call her Rapunzel. "They say there's strength in numbers, don't they?"

"I'm telling you, one of these days we'll have a kid that favors me and it'll be all over for you," Clarke mumbles, even if she thinks the chances are slim. Kids are naturally drawn to him, and it won't be until they're teens — her non-adult field of expertise— she can get her rightful revenge and time to shine. She's better when they know how to use their heads, not just do the first thing they  _feel_ like is right to do. They'll be telling him it's their life, not his, and she'll be right there with the mom advice and the warm, understanding hugs. "You'll be begging me for mercy."

Before he has time to respond, Ajax comes back up to the table, fake mustache plastered to his upper lip, askew, as he tosses his mom a red wig as an afterthought. "Picture time!"

Since her son climbs back into her husband's lap, already fumbling with the latter's phone, Clarke rolls her eyes, pushing herself up from her chair to sit down on the other side of the table beside them. (If the kid wasn't physically unable to sleep without a minimum of fifteen minutes of snuggles with her, she'd think he was actually this cruel with his blantant favoritism.) Bellamy snaps a quick picture, but then their son insists on taking a bunch more to send personalized ones to all his aunt and uncles. Which, sure, he loves them, but that's obviously a lie.

(What  _really_ gives it away is when he takes off the mustache, smooths over his hair, and after three trials runs, wonders out loud, "You'll think Aunt Raven will like this one?" Little Romeo. Since Clarke was practically always useless with girls, just flailing because of their beauty when in their presence most of the time, he gets  _that_  from his whore-dad.)

Ajax spends a while scrolling through all the pictures, bend over the phone while it lays on the table, which gives his parents enough time to have one of those silent eye-conversations he hates so much. (And for her to snatch that itchy wig off her head, thinking about ritually burning it later. Red is so not her color.)

Bellamy holds her gaze as he carefully starts, "Hey, buddy, we wanted to tell you something."

"O-kay?" He announces, not completely impressed, and he might be in the middle of cropping the both of them out of a picture, which, _savage_.

"Adult stuff," Bellamy adds, pointedly, which seems to catch his attention long enough for his dad to conspicuously slide the phone off the table and into his pocket.

Ajax looks from his mom to his dad and back. She's happy, worried, excited, nervous, eager, scared, nauseated — a lot of things at once.

"I'm pregnant," Clarke reveals, saying it in as many different ways, so she knows for sure he'll understand, "We're having another baby. You're getting a brother or sister."

"A baby?" He repeats, blinking profusely like they can actually physically see his brain processing the information, and she's glad one of those explanations stuck. He probably has a million questions.

"Yeah," Bellamy confirms, wiping a tuft of fake mustache hair off his freckled cheek, "In a few months, you'll be a big brother."

His eyes widen comically, as he turns in his father's lap, pressing his back against the edge of the table, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "Where is it?"

"Right here," Clarke says, soft, splaying a hand across her abdomen. It should be about the size of a peach now, Bellamy informed her a few days ago — because suddenly he was an expert on everything since discovering online parenting classes he could take, vowing to be more prepared this time around — and now she couldn't stop thinking about it. A peach. With eyelashes, and eyebrows. Maybe even fingerprints.

"Can I see?" He asks, almost in awe, little sausage fingers already flexing and unflexing like she can just conjure the fetus out of thin air and hand it over to him to play with.

Clarke nods, biting down on her lip as she lifts the bottom of her oversized shirt. She's only four months, so there's not that much to see unless you know what you're looking for, which makes public appearances easier, but explaining it to her four year old a little more difficult.

He reaches out to touch, remembering his dad's earlier pleas to be gentler, poking her lightly. Skeptically, he raises his gaze to meets Clarke's, "Are you sure you didn't just eat too much pasta last night?"

"I'm positive," she retorts, emphatically, letting out a small humoured huff as she slides her shirt back down. "I know it seems confusing, but soon you'll be able to feel the baby kick."

"Cool," Ajax says, but still like he isn't totally buying it, the distrust he gets from the Blake side of the family. "Can I go ask Mr. Ilian for pancakes?"

She opposes, smoothing some hair back from his forehead, "We can make those."

Ajax scrunches up his face, defiant. "His are better." That's probably true, Ilian did study for it and she can barely keep from burning water. Bellamy might manage, but Ilian has all kind of tricks up his sleeve. 

"Fine, but don't make them bring it all the way over here," Clarke declares, hating the fact the staff should technically have to obey orders from the brat. And she knows he'll abuse the power if he gets the chance. "We'll be right behind you."

"Say please and thank you," Bellamy calls after him, even though he's already disappearing from their view. He shakes his head, lightly, finding her gaze. Bellamy moves a strand of hair from one side of her head to the other, which must have happened because of the wig, tucking it behind her ear.

Clarke blinks at him for a moment, then deadpans, "Did he just call me fat?"

He tries to hold in a chuckle. "I think he did." He fails miserably.

The blonde jerks the plastic crown off his head, narrowing her eyes dangerously, clutching the toy to her chest protectively. "You don't deserve this."

He leans closer, close enough for her to feel his breath fan across her face, his hand wrapping around her chair to pull it towards his. "How many more minutes before he comes looking for us, you think?"

"Maybe twenty to twenty-five, depending on if we're out of chocolate chips or not," she debates, free hand sliding down her stomach to come rest on top of his knee. "Six hours if he finds the tablet," she muses, roasting her own son's attention span with much pleasure, then it fades into a suspicious look, "Why?"

His warm hand slides up her thigh, and she pretends like one single touch doesn't completely wreck her just like that. "Maybe I could prove my worth to you, princess."

"You know that's not how it works, right?" Clarke argues, mostly just to not have him win so easily, but she's chucking the crown on top of the table carelessly, inching closer to him until her chair is borderline tipping over, knees falling open involuntarily as his hand trails higher. "I know you'll need at least a dozen to outpower me, but there's already one in there."

He places a kiss to her neck, gentler than necessary, making warmth bloom across her chest. "I know, I'm playing the long game."

**Author's Note:**

> anyway hmu [here](http://www.captaindaddykru.tumblr.com) or [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru) if you want to yell at me, prompt me or psycho-analyze the word 'corroboration' together. 
> 
>    
> together. ha. pls say sike.


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